


The Other Way to Skin a Cat

by Ozymanreis



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [59]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Clubbing, Escape, Evil Plans, Jealous Sherlock, Jealousy, M/M, Mind Games, Smoking, Texting, test
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 00:53:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3468308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not everyone mattered, yet it took a gesture so large to catch Jim off-guard. All he had to do was wait. Then the sprinklers began raining down filthy water.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other Way to Skin a Cat

**Author's Note:**

> #77: Test

**Are you flirting with some random woman just to make me jealous? -SH**

 

Across the bar, Sherlock tries his best not to glare, waiting for the moment Jim's gaze dips downward to check his mobile. Sitting there in the salacious nightclub, filled mostly with people averaging ten years younger than him, wasn't _exactly_ the detective's definition of "fun."

But he was here for Jim, and that should've counted for something. Okay, he'd been _late_ for their engagement, but that didn't give the consulting criminal free reign to do as he pleased — not that allowance had ever stopped him. 

The woman he's with is, admittedly, quite attractive. Long, shiny auburn hair, tawny eyes, a slim frame, well-manicured nails… roughly ten years younger than him, but that seemed to be a sampling bias. Oh and ever did she _laugh_ at whatever Jim was talking about, blushing up a storm. But Sherlock wasn't jealous. 

He didn't get jealous.

There was a pause in whatever conversation they were having, and the girl excused herself, sauntering off to the loo. Jim takes a moment to watch her go — _what commitment to showmanship_ — then side-glances his lover, raising his scotch glass daintily, taking a sip with one hand, pulling out the mobile with the other.

 

**Sherlock! I'm offended by the very assumption! -JM**

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes, not having ordered a drink yet, nor did he plan to anymore.

 

**Save it. We made plans. -SH**

 

**Well, *I* made plans for seven. It's now eight. -JM**

**I believe I'm entitled to improvise… -JM**

 

**Oh. Does that mean you plan on waking up in her bed tomorrow? -SH**

 

**Of course not! That'd be presumptive. -JM**

**I'll probably bring her back to mine. -JM**

 

**I'm certain you meant, "ours." -SH**

 

**Sure. -JM**

 

Sherlock was about to write something utterly snarky, cutting, awful, or all of the above, but then Jim's woman of the evening returned from the bathroom, and away went the mobile. End of snappy discussion or chance of retribution. Wait.

_The bathroom._

A positively _evil_ seed sprouts in Sherlock's mind, taking root so thoroughly in his brain.

As a gaggle of teens pass by, Sherlock slips away, headed to the men’s restroom, snaking a hand into his coat pocket, fingers closing around the rectangular box of his emergency stash. A single cigarette is always an excuse for good fun, but here and now, it’d be of much better utility. Safely tucked into one of the stalls, standing under the fire alarm, the detective lit the end.

He took a huge drag in and tilted his head directly up, puckered lips aimed directly at the smoke detector.

The exhalation seemed to release in slow motion, forming a gray plume of a nest around the white plastic disc. For the moment, the red light blinks on and off rhythmically, as if nothing happened. He cups a hand over the top of the cigarette in anticipation.

An ungodly wailing of the siren blares over the club, piercing Sherlock's skull. But that was good — it'd get through to everyone else as well. Not everyone mattered, yet it took a gesture so large to catch Jim off-guard. All he had to do was wait. Then the sprinklers began raining down filthy water.

During a fire alarm, most people's immediate reaction is to flee the premises immediately, both to escape danger, and to avoid suspicion should there be any investigation into the identity of the fire starter. Jim Moriarty, however, was a special case: since he hadn't been the instigator of this incident, his natural inclination was to figure out _who_ had the audacity to try and ruin his suit.

And really, the half-drowned criminal knew, there was only _one_ person that'd be confident enough that he wouldn't be killed _immediately_. He burst into the bathroom, hair soaked, clothes clinging flat to his skin, " _You_." He seethes, cheeks bright red, "That…"

Sherlock takes the sight in through the droplets, inhaling deeply on the smoke, "That's a good look on you." He says matter-of-factly on the exhale, "I rescind my confusion on wet t-shirt enthusiasts." Mostly joking, but his eyes drag over Jim's revealed form regardless, "Sexy."

Jest or not, a compliment from Sherlock was a _compliment_ from _Sherlock_. Jim sneers to prevent his lips from quirking up, not quite ready to give up his anger, though his response was soft, "That was quite illegal."

"Yep." Sherlock does an intentionally poor job of suppressing a grin, his facial muscles already aching from pride in his own cleverness. He drops the cigarette into a stream of water, effectively putting it out and down, then reaches a hand to stroke through Jim's sopping hair, "Shall I boost you out the window?"

The scowl that scrunched Jim's face was a thing of legend, his entire face shrinking to a defined, wrinkled point, "I've got it myself, _jerk_." He growls, swatting Sherlock's hand away, taking a purposeful step up, grounding a foot onto the porcelain surface of the sink, kicking off it in a less-than-graceful bounce, his foot slipping off the slick surface, arms thrown out the window, bottom half hanging down the wall. 

For a few minutes, it seemed like he'd make it, shoes getting some traction, inching up. However, it was clear within five seconds that those fancy flats were too smooth, and the wall too wet, making the shorter man's efforts all for naught. The sight alone made Sherlock giggle, the frustrated little sounds Jim was making only icing on the cake. 

" _Ahem_." Jim clears his throat, unable to crane his neck backward, "I seem to need assistance."

"I can see that." Sherlock teases, standing out of the kicking-range of Jim's fun-sized legs, "And normally I'd make you say 'please' first, but law enforcement is surely on its way." He got under his feet, letting him kick off his shoulders, a slight _thump_ outside as the criminal rolled onto the hedges.

Sherlock follows quickly after, far more cat-like in maneuvering. They clasped hands and began to walk away from the scene quietly, liquid flying off their clothes discreetly in the cover of darkness. The flashing lights of the police and firemen several hundred meters behind, completely unawares. 

"You know…" Jim considers, pulling out a cigarette of his own, holding it out for the detective to light, "If you're _really_ stuck on not making me sweat our escape… you could always make me beg when we get back home."

"Generous." The taller man offered, flicking open the zippo for his partner, "But it wouldn't be authentic."

"We could _make_ it authentic…" Jim suggests, glancing back at the red and blue lights, reflecting softly off his shimmering face, "Another game, perhaps?"

Sherlock almost drops the lighter, breath catching, hands fumbling with his coat pocket. Years upon years of games, and Jim could still get his heart racing, "You're on."

 


End file.
